


the honor amongst thieves

by sensibleshroom



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Jango Fett Open Seasons (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Jango isn't a GREAT parent but he's trying, Jaster Mereel Lives, M/M, Mand'alor Alpha-17, Mand'alor Jango Fett, Mand'alor Jaster Mereel, Mandalorian Empire (Star Wars), Mandalorian Royalty, Mild Gore, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parental Hondo Ohnaka, Parental Jango Fett, Parental Jaster Mereel, Rating subject to change, Sith Empire (Star Wars), Trans Male Character, bastardization of mando'a, clone wars doesn't happen, heavy potc inspiration, sorry - Freeform, unfortunate star wars cussing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:08:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29329077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensibleshroom/pseuds/sensibleshroom
Summary: The galaxy is a vast and complex combination of what ifs, hows, and whys. Rarely do people ask these questions, but they exist nonetheless. First ad be Mand'alor Alpha-17, months before being named his father's heir, is learning the importance of these questions.Or: is royalty a title, or is it a duty? What does it mean to be a prince, and what does it mean when you don't know the meaning? Featuring pirate kings, Mandalorian royalty, general Sith aggression, misconceptions, and the honor amongst thieves. Freedom is more than a word, and sometimes we have to find out what it means.
Relationships: Alpha-17/Original Male Character
Comments: 12
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter 1

Contrary to popular belief, Devaronians did very much care about the cold, and did very much not like it. Sure, they were explorers, with a wanderlust for the stars, constantly wanting to fall into the abyss and drift here and there, untethered and freer than the stars trapped in their orbits would ever be, but they were still very much native to a planet formed from a jungle, and they still _did not actually like the cold of space._

Tibalt Ohnaka, hybrid he may be, also did very much not like the cold of space, especially when the last thing functioning on his ship was the life support and absolutely nothing else. He especially didn’t like the cold when he could still feel fat globules of floating warm blood, freshly leaking from his side, hit him in the cheek and slid down his throat as his limp, barely functioning body drifted along the hold, where the Sith had left him to die with the corpses of his crew. Slowly, painfully, on the edge of Mandalorian space, with no hope of a rescue. Hondo was expecting him back whenever he deigned to comm, and there were no dates set for the future for a party with his adoptive father, no plans, because they both knew any plan never survived a night of drinking, and it was better to leave everything to spontaneity.

He had to warn him, he thought dimly as he bumped against the body of Vreekos Char, torn apart by lightsabers. Sith were encroaching on pirate territory, and the court had to be called so Hondo could rally them to war.

But Tibalt was so, so tired. His eyes were drifting shut, breath frosting in the air as pain throbbed across his abdomen. Six Sith acolyte bodies were drifting, taken apart with nothing but the songsteel spear he carried on his back and panic and blasters, most of them killed by him, but he had failed all the same. The bloody spear was still in his hand, a sort of death grip affecting him, like he was expecting them to come _back,_ and his eyes were growing heavy. He wanted to sleep, but he needed to get to wherever the bacta patches had drifted, needed to…

He couldn’t move. His breath was wheezing and painful. He couldn’t breathe, hardly, and he knew his ship. It wouldn’t be long before life support cycled out, unsupported by dead engines, and he was essentially in open space, no chance of an emergency beacon.

There was a clang and a shudder, and he roused himself, blinking hard as he tried to get his brain situated. Were they coming back? Was that it? He’d fetch a hefty price on the market, he had to admit. Pirate captain, half a dozen bounties on his head, not to mention Hondo Ohnaka’s son, and if they knew of his life before Hondo… That was a _hefty_ price.

He needed to move.

With a groan, he reached out with his free hand, pressed down on Vreekos’s still body, and pushed himself up to right his body, black blood still spiraling around him, pulled into his meager orbit as his limbs screamed at the movement. Sluggishly, he dropped his spear into a ready position, his brain in a haze of agony and zero-g sickness, and he shook it to clear it. The heavy coat was weighing him down, half destroyed from the saber he’d taken to the shoulder, the armor more of a cumberance than a help at this point, all sharp edges threatening to dig in and make the gaping slash in his shoulder worse, and he made the decision to slip it off. A sheer shirt dipped in Naboo resin was the only defense he had against blasters now, his implant clear and shining in black chrome against the flat of his stomach, but it would have to do.

There was a blaster… Kry’s, he thought, drifting near him, and he reached out to grab it. His hand slid into the unfamiliar grip, and he leveled the spear horizontally against his chest, blaster propped against it and his forearm as he aimed at the airlock. If push came to shove, he could hit the override detachment controls, space them all. Better than the other option, at least.

There was clicking and whirring as they were boarded, and Tibalt sent a thought of mourning to his ship. He’d been so proud of it. He had a private fleet, but the _Lucky Wench_ had been a favorite, his flagship, his heart and joy. If he had time to set a self destruct to keep them from getting their hands on all of the experimental modifications, he would. It wouldn’t do to give the Sith their tech. He wouldn’t say pirates were _advanced,_ but they were definitely ingenious with their bullshit, and he still had _some_ principles from his former life.

Just a few.

The door hissed, and started to peel open, and he shook his head again to clear out the cobwebs. His connection was tenuous at best nowadays, but he still had it, and…

Ah. That was somehow worse. Not Sith, he realized as he registered the muffled presences in the Force. That was _beskar_ muffling, and his haggard brain was already calculating the escape possibility from a Mandalorian prison and the possibility of him getting _back_ into Pirate Rim. It wasn’t a high chance. None of their prisons were anywhere near Pirate Rim, for good reason. If you wanted to get out, your best bet was a detour through the Sith Empire, and that was a one way suicide run if you were _lucky._ They’d treat him better, but…

A reckless thought filtered through his brain that he could _absolutely_ just push them into shooting him and going out in a blaze, but the father in the back of his mind laughed at the thought and told him survival left for a better story. Even so… A low, animalistic growl built up in his chest, because he felt a little more animal than sentient right now, probably the bloodlust, and that blasted Devaronian instinct to fight before flee was rising.

The door was opening fully, and he let off a shot on instinct, eyes narrowed, fangs bared, blood still floating around him as some rose up in his throat. With a cough, he spat out a mouthful of black sludge, and let off another shot. There was a ringing clang as it connected with a beskar breastplate, and he fought to focus his eyes to aim. The cool metal rested against his forearm, and Mandalorian _Oya’ade_ spilled out into the hold, their jetpacks firing as they spread out to surround him, blasters up and pointed at him.

A low growl bubbled up in his throat, and he hissed, fangs dripping with venom as he twisted in the empty space.

“You’re in no position to be fighting,” one of them said through the modulator, and he licked at the venom slipping down his canine.

“I’m also in no position to be negotiating, so I’ll pick the less desperate of the two,” he replied, but his vision was swimming. A Sith acolyte bumped into him, and a twitch had his spear batting it away as his head dipped, unconsciousness creeping in.

“You kill all these _dar’jetti?_ ” One asked in amusement, and he spat another mouthful of blood as he started to drift.

“Some,” he replied, his grip tightening on his spear, but sleep was bearing in. He felt weak, and the hand gripping Kry’s blaster shook ever so slightly as everything went out of focus. The pain was now all encompassing, and Devaronians were hard to kill, but he had taken a saber to the shoulder, a stab to the gut with a vibroblade, a cut glancing the artery on his thigh, and only the cauterization had kept him alive this long. There was only so much blood he could lose, and the pressure was breaking through the burn.

“Listen, I’m about to die, so if you could hurry up and sho---” He drifted off, losing his trail of thought, and focusing suddenly became herculean. His mouth was dry, but somehow too wet, and his venom production was kicking into overdrive as a defense mechanism, making him crave a fight and his blood quicken in his body with the promise of ripping someone’s throat out with his teeth. Which he had already done _once_ today, but the Devaronian defense system took a lot out of someone with nothing left to give.

Blasted evolution, was the last thing he managed to think coherently before unconsciousness slammed into him like a train, the sudden juxtaposition between fight and _might survive if you don’t_ too much for him to deal with it.

Dad was not going to be able to pull him out of trouble this time.

And Dad didn’t know about the Sith.

_Kriff._

* * *

“One hell of a fighter for being so small,” Echo commented as he nudged the dead _dar’jetti_ with the toe of his boot. She had a gaping hole in her throat, and the Devaronian hybrid had blood all over his lips and mouth, and not all of it was black. Fives crossed his arms as he studied the pirate cuffed down to the biobed, stripped to his shorts, bacta plastered on his side and shoulder and thigh in the aftermath of the dermal mender.

“Nasty little thing,” Fives agreed as his eyes went over the lockpicks they had taken out of his braid, long black hair in a mess under him.

“Database pull him up?” Echo asked as he knelt down to zip up the body bags for transport, and Fives snorted as he turned away from the unconscious survivor.

“Yeah,” he replied as he gave his clearance code for more classified reports. “Tibalt Ohnaka.”

“... Like the Weequay?” Echo asked, and Fives grimaced. Pirate Rim was a lawless place, but they generally stayed fairly far away from Mandalorian space. Hondo Ohnaka, however, flirted with the rules and boundaries like it was a favorite pastime, and could talk his way in and around just about anyone. He wasn’t particularly _well read,_ but he’d been a pirate since he was a tween, and it showed. He had experience, which was a far more dangerous teacher.

“Adopted kid, apparently. Database was unclear on where he was from _before,_ probably Republic or Sith space, given he’s Corellian and Devaronian, but he’s been running with Hondo since he was about thirteen. Twenty-two, some pretty fucking huge bounties on his head, split off from Hondo when he was eighteen to captain his own ship, has a nice little fleet. Pulled off some nifty heists in Sith space, managed to royally piss off the whole damn Sith Council when he made off with some Hedonis artifacts, you know how _they_ get over the Hedonis artifacts, reportedly stole a whole shipment of raw ore and the recipe for songsteel, been auctioning the blend off to the highest bidder since the Sith has started taking interest in the Rim. Quite a ballsy entrepreneur.”

“Apparently,” Echo said and stood up to pick up the spear he’d been clinging to. With deft precision, he flipped it over his hand and tested the weight with one finger. “He’s got a good blacksmith, if he didn’t do this himself.”

“Reports say Hondo never shuts the hell up about him,” Fives said some wryly as he flipped through all of the files they had on Ohnaka. There were multiple complaints from _verde_ that had to deal with him and spies that he would _not_ pipe down about how proud he was of his ‘boy’, loudly detailing all of the various ways he had backstabbed people and pulled off some hairbrained heist and pissed off this person or that. _That_ was a proud dad, if he was annoying even Mandalorians with how much he would not shut up about his child. No mention of where Tibalt had come from, though, but that was par for the course with pirates.

“Good fighter, too,” Echo commented as he looked down at the mangled _dar’jetii_ he had to seal up. “Nasty. From the wound patterns, he killed at _least_ four _dar’jetii_ just with teeth and spear, and that’s not counting the spear. Stupid to leave someone like that for dead.”

Fives paused over a report from a Korun _verde_ that went into Pirate Rim fairly regularly to pick up Foundlings. It was a report detailing how he had run into Hondo and had to steal a bunch of _akk_ wolves from him. A year or two after he had picked up Tibalt, evidently, leaving Tibalt about mid-teens, maybe fourteen or fifteen at a conservative estimate.

_‘Force sensitive. Clearly trained, at least in shielding, possibly martial arts, though unsure if he picked it up from the pirates. Not sure where Ohnaka got him, but it couldn’t be anywhere good. Ohnaka clearly adores him, but the ade is traumatized and hiding it with fractured shields he’s barely managing to piece back together. Recommend to keep an eye on pirate incursions into Sith space to see if there might be a pattern. Might just be a Devaron refugee. It’s hell there right now.’_

Devaron had Force traditions, but if this particular pirate was a _trained_ Force user, they had better keep him sedated for the trip until they could get him in a secure cell. He had a few run ins with _verde_ that had left him wanted in Mandalorian space, so they had to get him processed after he was fit enough to not be on oxygen. Even then, he’d have to be kept away from general population until he could take a hit.

Unconscious, and already being a problem. Oh, well. He’d be someone else’s problem once they were on _Manda’yaim._ Fives just had to keep him knocked out until they got there with the sedatives they had that would _actually_ work on a Devaron, even a half one like him. Kix would have to check that implant when they got there, figure out what it did and how medically necessary it was and if they had the things to make it work, or if it needed a Mandalorian model. It looked custom, though…

Ah.

“Careful of the venom,” he said to his twin, and Echo looked up with a hum, holding up his gloved hands. “I think that’s a hormone implant, so he’s probably more venomous than the average male Devaronian. Not sure how the Human ancestry messes with it, but don’t get any of it on a hangnail. No antidotes for _that_ on board.”

They really _should_ have a damned antidote for Devaronian venom on board. Those _dar’jetii_ were lucky he’d gone for the throat, Fives thought wryly as he checked Ohnaka’s vitals and made sure he wasn’t going to wake up any time soon. He was fine, so he focused his attention on helping his brother get the bodies bagged up.

“Least he went for the throat,” Echo said wryly as he sealed another bag, and Fives let out a snort at the same thought. “What?”

“Was just thinking the same thing,” he said dryly as he rolled a Toydarian pirate into a bag. “Weird to think dying like _that_ was a mercy, but…”

His eyes drifted over the gaping hole in the _dar’jetii’s_ throat as Echo sealed her up, and then he focused on his own body.

“Painful,” he finished, because hallucinogenic neurotoxins were a hell of a way to go out.

“Well, at least they’re dead. Too bad we missed the fight,” Echo complained, and Fives rolled his eyes.

“I think it was a nice day off, personally.”

“Easy for you to say, with four _dar’jetii_ kills under your belt. I have two,” Echo shot back, and Fives smacked him upside the head on instinct.

“Then get good, _vod._ ”

“Yeah, yeah, _sorry_ I’m better at tech, whatever.”

“You’re good at memorizing codexes and listing all the ways I broke the rules,” Fives retorted, even if he was being uncharitable. Echo _was_ good at tech.

“Uhuh. You gonna put gloves on after yelling at me to make sure my hands are covered?”

  
Ah, it was going to be a long twelve hours back to _Manda’yaim._ Kark it.


	2. Chapter 2

Alpha Fett, first _ad be Mand’alor,_ had a very long day of not busting heads in the middle of diplomatic proceedings, and he was entirely wiped out. Kote, the damn traitor, had been entirely missing for the past three days on a hunt with their cousins Fives and Echo, and Fox and Wolffe had tagged along, leaving Alpha to deal with Boba, Rex, their crotchety _ba’bu,_ and their _actual buir_ on his own for the past two of those days. Not that he _had_ to deal with _buir,_ but it was becoming an exercise in patience to keep up with his steadily increasing demands of Alpha. Jango Fett wasn’t getting any younger, and Alpha and Kote were the favorites for naming his heir, and every day it was looking more and more like Kote wanted Alpha to take the mantle.

It wasn’t that Kote wasn’t steady, or capable, or anything like that, but he was also fonder of leadership on a smaller scale. Which left Alpha as the eldest to pick up his responsibilities. Kote would be a perfectly sensible and steady _Mand’alor,_ but the thing about being the oldest was just doing the things that your siblings just _didn’t want to do._ He was almost glad Kote was gone having fun with a hunt, because otherwise he may be snapping at him again, and while he had never been particularly _gentle_ with Kote…

Sometimes he thought he should have been.

Twenty-six years old, and these were his very adult concerns. He was exhausted, and _ba’bu_ was expecting him after a long day that left Alpha wanting to collapse into bed at six pm. But he always honored his agreements with Jaster, and today was going to be no different, even if the Toydarian delegation was _exhausting_ to deal with on a good day, and it had not been a good day. His armor was needing to go to the Armorer soon, an edge had been twisted in the middle of combat with the _dar’jetii_ mercenaries who _swore_ they weren’t from the Empire that were probing their borders, and it had been digging into the meat of his thigh all day. But it would take the Armorer at least a few days to get it fixed, with all the pending armor upgrades he had been putting off for this exact reason, and he didn’t want to go running around the palace for several days without his beskar. Even if it was leaving a bruise.

And he’d missed midmeal, and was putting off latemeal until after he was done with his designated _ba’bu_ time. Jaster was seventy now, on a whole host of medications, still fit as ever, but arthritis was catching up with him, and he’d had a handful of surgeries in the past few years that had left him with less than stellar mobility. On top of that, he had a pacemaker, but he was still up and kicking. He couldn’t spar anymore, but he still ran his morning drills and spent most of his day either advising if he was in the mood for it, or if _buir really_ needed something, or holed up in his library picking a fight with Republican academics with all the damned theses and essays he was still putting out.

Alpha hadn’t seen a lot of him lately, and their evening chats were about the only time he _could_ outside of his irregular advising. Which was frustrating, but it was fine.

And, so, here he was, marching into the library with his _buyce_ shoved under his arm, ready to pull _ba’bu_ out of a stack of datapads and bully him into eating latemeal with him, because he’d been on some kind of kick lately getting into old treaties with the Sith Empire.

Except apparently he _wouldn’t_ have to dig him out, because there was _ba’bu,_ chatting up a young Twi’lek _verde,_ looking like he was just off duty with his _buyce_ and gloves off, and had the damned _verde_ gotten _ba’bu_ caf? He wasn’t supposed to be having caf.

Irritation at his _ba’bu_ rose, but Alpha tempered it down as _ba’bu’s_ eyes caught his and a broad smile stretched across his lips.

“Alpha!” He called, his brown eyes crinkling in warmth as he gestured for Alpha to step closer. “Do you know Kerus?”

“No,” Alpha bit out and deliberately picked up the half-full mug of caf, making direct eye contact with his _ba’bu_ as he drained it in three long chugs. _Ba’bu_ didn’t seem to mind, he never did, just smiling at Alpha with winsome innocence as the male Twi’lek glanced up at the _Mand’alor’s_ eldest with trepidation.

“Sorry, sir, I’ll just---”

Alpha clapped a hand on his shoulder and shoved him back in his seat before he could make a run for it.

“Not annoyed with you,” he said gruffly, because more people _should_ be visiting _ba’bu._ It wasn’t good for him to be stuck in this damned library all day, big windows or not, whether he _liked_ it or not. “Kerus?”

“Kerus actually was just leaving, since we’re going on a trip,” _ba’bu_ said cheerfully as he clambered to his feet and stretched as much as his old limbs would allow. Too many back injuries over the years, Alpha thought ruefully, before his thoughts shifted to one of alarm.

“We’re doing a what?” Alpha asked, because it was six at night, and _ba’bu’s_ spontaneity always spelled trouble on a good day.

“Just across town, _ad’ika,_ ” _ba’bu_ said and looped his arm through Alpha’s elbow. He did love to play at being frail, and Alpha indulged him more than _buir_ did. Maybe when he was _ninety,_ but the man was only _seventy,_ back injuries or not.

“It’s a big town,” Alpha said dubiously, and _ba’bu_ just grinned without an ounce of shame.

“We’re going to the jail,” he said cheerfully, and Alpha blinked as he let _ba’bu_ guide him towards the door as Kerus bolted to his feet.

“No, we’re not. You’ll be late for latemeal _and_ your evening meds,” he said, and _ba’bu_ just grinned.

“I’m sure as Jango’s boy you’ll get us in and out quickly,” he said and patted Alpha on the arm as Alpha keyed the door open despite every instinct screaming that _ba’bu_ was going to get them into trouble.

“ _Why_ are we going to the jail?”

“Would you believe it, we have had a pirate from the Rim stuck in processing for _three days_ because he’s so slippery a charge can’t stick?” Jaster asked gleefully, and Alpha’s gut sunk in his stomach as he realized his _ba’bu_ was _absolutely_ going to the jail to get in a long winded debate about Mandalorian law with a karking _pirate._

“No, I wouldn’t believe it, and neither should you,” he said stubbornly, for the sake of obstinance even as he kept letting his _ba’bu_ lead him down the halls as Kerus waffled in the doorway. “Go home, kid. I’m sure you got someone waiting up for you.”

“Yes, _‘alor!_ ” The kid barked, probably too loudly, but Alpha was now solely focused on talking his _ba’bu_ out of whatever plan he had in his head _before_ _buir_ lost his temper over their recklessness.

“This can’t be that interesting, _ba’bu,_ ” he complained, because when in doubt, complain, and when in secondary doubt, “I have _striil_ stew on the stove for you. The meat will be too tender.”

“It’ll keep,” _ba’bu_ said mischievously, brown eyes still gleaming with glee as he led Alpha through the halls. “Apparently he’s a Devaronian hybrid, and he seems to know Mandalorian law inside and out, and is giving _everyone_ a headache. I think I can lend them a hand.”

“To actually get him _out_ of processing limbo, or to see if you have someone _new_ to subject to your thoughts on interpretations versus original intent?” Alpha asked with the kind of resignation he only associated with his _ba’bu,_ and occasionally with Fox, when he was really being a stickler about the rules and the various loopholes he delighted in unraveling.

“One day, _ad’ika,_ you’ll learn you can have cake and eat it,” _ba’bu_ said peaceably as he patted Alpha’s forearm.

“This had better not take long,” Alpha said, because he wasn’t going to respond to that. “I’m serious about the stew. It’s on a simmer, but it’ll be at the point of turning into mush in three hours. You have _two._ ”

“I’ll be brief,” _ba’bu_ promised, and Alpha didn’t believe him, not for a second.

* * *

Alpha could have _sworn_ _ba’bu_ said ‘Devaronian’. That was most certainly what he said, and that was _not_ a Devaronian. He wasn’t even sure the man qualified as a _hybrid._ He didn’t know they even came in that size.

He was in the medical wing of the processing center. According to the file on his datapad, filled to the brim with Echo’s thorough report, he had been found four days ago on a dead ship, recognized as the _Lucky Wench,_ just within the border of Mandalorian space. Seven dead _dar’jetii,_ a dozen dead pirates, and one lone survivor, who had unsuccessfully shot Fives and then Hawthorn, and promptly passed out. Vibroblade to the gut, _jetii’kad_ to the thigh and shoulder, half dead and recovering rapidly. Possibly Force sensitive, midichlorian count pending, and arrangements were still being made for him to be placed within a cell equipped to hold him in case he was trained.

He also looked like someone had thrown a Devaronian in a blender and strained out what was left, Alpha thought. He was being kept in a ray shielded room, hooked up to monitors and apparently too damn stubborn to stay in bed, because as soon as _ba’bu_ showed up to chat him up, he’d gotten up and started pacing. He definitely wasn’t enjoying being locked up, that much was clear. And he was _gregarious,_ gesturing without even a wince of pain at the pull in his shoulder, wide and animated and annoying.

Alpha was looming in the background, keeping track of the time and thinking about his stew, but his gaze kept drifting back to the hybrid. Crimson skin, darker than some Devaronians, and loose black hair almost to his hips, swaying and lank without a decent wash. Short, so very short, he couldn’t be more than 157 centimeters, 158 was _pushing it,_ with thick horns that curled against the sides of his head in a way that stank of a Northern Devaronian lineage, where the heat humidity dropped and the mountains rose up in the place of jungles. Purple eyes darted to Alpha every so often, but dismissed him just as swiftly as they zeroed in on their target: _ba’bu._

“As I was saying, you can’t just call any male Devaronian that’s a _little_ shorter than average and long hair a _pirate,_ ” he complained. “Just because _someone_ called themself Tibalt doesn’t mean it was _me._ The Rim’s a big place, sir, and I can’t be _everywhere._ No markings on the ship, no codes, no nothing but eyewitnesses, and eyewitnesses are _notoriously_ unreliable. You don’t even have my biocode to tie to the scene of the crime! Honestly, there’s a lot of conjecture going around, I thought the Mandalorian justice system was a bit more _thorough_ than that.”

“And what about the raid on Outpost 2337-B?” _Ba’bu_ challenged, and Ohnaka reared back in mock offense.

“Surely you don’t consider _that_ Mandalorian space. Not with the trade disagreement of 14684, which was never _resolved,_ mind you. I do hope you aren’t _taxing_ them, not without that paperwork sorted out, because that sounds a little illegal according to Amendment 37-A of Article 74 of the Mandalorian constitution,” he said, his eyes _gleaming_ with some kind of malicious glee Alpha didn’t like, not one bit.

“Ah, but the treaty of 3576 resolved that issue rather handily,” _ba’bu_ shot back, and Ohnaka very deliberately swept his hair over his shoulder where it was sticking to the bandage peeking out from under the collar of his shirt. Alpha’s eyes narrowed on the trickle of wet blood staining the shirt, but Ohnaka powered on, heedless of the fact that he was bleeding and staining the hospital garments they had dressed him in.

“It settled the issue of _trade,_ not the validity of Outpost 2337-B as a Mandalorian entity. Just because you do _business_ with someone doesn’t mean they’re _yours._ Honestly, it’s like you’ve never had a discussion with a _pirate_ before,” he said haughtily. “Outpost 2337-B is an independent entity, and not under the protection of the grand Mandalorian Empire. If you don’t want them to be raided, perhaps you should _correct_ that, because far be it from us humble pirates to trample on the authority of the Mandalorian Empire. Much easier targets in our little home, thank you kindly.”

“And what about the incident two years ago when you brought conflict into Mandalorian space? Piracy _is_ illegal here, you know,” _ba’bu_ countered, and Tibalt took a deep breath.

“I _unfortunately_ ran into disreputable business partners who dishonored an agreement on the _border_ of Mandalorian space, not in the space itself,” he replied. “And that could _hardly_ qualify as piracy. It was reacquiring stolen property!”

“Stolen property that was already stolen,” _ba’bu_ pointed out, and Ohnaka tilted his head, rather birdlike, and blinked at him.

“I don’t see how goods acquired outside of the Mandalorian Empire matters to the Mandalorian Empire,” he said archly, and Alpha’s eye was starting to twitch. If they kept this up, _ba’bu_ was going to get karking excited, and his body was still adjusting to the pacemaker. He was _still_ recovering from the surgery. He was supposed to be taking it easy, and Ohnaka wasn’t looking too hot, either. Alpha had a feeling he was normally _much_ darker, and he was picking up a telltale limp in his agitated pacing. “In any case, the charge is that I participated in _piracy_ within Mandalorian borders, which I did _not._ Did any Mandalorian vessels see me cross _over_ into _uncontested Mandalorian territory_ while in the midst of that unfortunate little squabble over stolen goods?”

_Ba’bu_ knew a trap when he saw one, but he was grinning. _Manda_ help him, _ba’bu_ liked this little _di’kut_ with golden stripes on his horns and greasy hair. It would be pointless to tell him the damned _mir’osik_ was a criminal. _Ba’bu_ was also a criminal, once upon a time, and had a soft spot for upstarts in small packages.

There was blood on the inside of his thigh, staining the hospital leggings, and Alpha was over the whole ordeal.

“Sit down before you fall down, _chakaar,_ ” he snapped. “Your leg is bleeding.”

Ohnaka’s attention swiveled to him, and he blinked once, twice, before slowly looking down and twisting his leg so he could look at his inner thigh in mute confusion.

“Huh. That’s a problem. They nicked an artery,” he said faintly, and Alpha inhaled sharply.

“That’s an _arterial wound_ and you’re _pacing?_ ”

“Devaronian hunting highs can last two weeks without a supervised wind down, and I’m in a _cell,_ ” Ohnaka shot back. “If you want me to sit still, you should find some sedatives that _work._ Or let me loose, since all you have are _trumped up charges_ anyways. Between the painkillers and the adrenaline that is getting _incredibly_ annoying, mind you, I couldn’t feel my face if I walked into a wall.”

“Well, there are no charges to be found,” _ba’bu_ said cheerfully, and Alpha _refused_ to look at him in alarm, but what was he _doing?_ He was the _former Mand’alor,_ he couldn’t just _say that,_ he would have to be _held to it._ Alpha thought he was still sharp as a tack, but maybe he’d misjudged.

“I’m sorry?” The _aggravating_ little Devaronian coughed, and Alpha resisted the urge to press the button for a medic to come sedate him and get him back into bed where he _belonged._

“There’s no charges that will hold up for prosecution,” _ba’bu_ explained patiently. “So, please, as an apology, allow me to extend the hospitality of the _Mand’alor_ and his _aliit._ You will find the palace quite safe and comfortable, I assure you. The guards there are quite accommodating.”

Alpha’s eyes didn’t widen, even under his helmet. He was made of stone, and he was not going to budge, not even going to _consider_ showing his shock, but _buir_ was going to have _his_ head for letting _ba’bu_ come down here, and **_ba’bu’s_ ** head for inviting a known pirate into the damn palace to illegally hold him under the veneer of hospitality just so _ba’bu_ could cause a little chaos.

The Devaronian blinked once, twice, and his eyes flicked between the two of them as his face twisted in mild concern.

“You two are… from the palace?” He asked haltingly, and oh, yes, they hadn’t introduced themselves. He had _no_ idea who he had been arguing with about Mandalorian law for the past hour.

“My apologies, Mister Ohnaka, I seem to have forgotten my manners,” _ba’bu_ said, endlessly smug and self satisfied in a way that was downright _dangerous._ “I am Jaster Mereel, and this here is my _ba’ad’ika,_ Alpha Fett.”

“... Fett?” The _chakaar_ repeated, and his voice cracked a bit. Alpha bit back a sigh at _ba’bu’s_ theatrics, because apparently he had a medic transport to work out. They couldn’t go back on it now.

“Alpha here will get the paperwork done,” _ba’bu_ said pleasantly as he rose slowly from his chair. “Now, I believe we’re going to be late for latemeal. We’ll call for a medic, and hopefully see you tomorrow, hm? Have a lovely night, Mister Ohnaka. I do hope we can help you work out the hunting high problem. As a formal apology for the mix up, of course.”

Alpha carefully switched to internal comms so he could just let out a long, harangued sigh of utter defeat, and _ba’bu_ swept for the door without another word as Ohnaka stood there, looking thoroughly lost and confused at the recent development. Eventually, he would learn. _Ba’bu_ just liked him.

It wasn’t until the door closed that Alpha rounded on his _ba’buir_ with steadily growing irritation.

“Was there any _reason_ you decided to invite a _pirate_ to the _Yaim be Manda’yaim?_ ” He demanded, and _ba’bu_ hummed, lost in thought as he strode down the hall, pretenses of fragility forgotten as his mind fell into contemplation.

“You know, there’s not much information about the fall of the Hutts and how the pirates pulled that level of organization off before just scattering and somehow remaining functional,” he said casually, and Alpha blinked. No one _cared_ about that sort of thing. “No power vacuum, no emergent warlords, just everything returning to how it always operated, minus the Hutts being at the center of the pie. Remarkable cohesion, really. And they’ve kept it up for two hundred years without any emergent major governments, and yet not even the Sith Empire has bothered to turn to Pirate Rim. They just do business, and no one questions how easy it all was, and how easy it’s stayed. No one’s tried to sweep in, either. Not even us, because it’s not worth losing and muddling up the trade network and commerce when it’s always so mutually agreeable. I imagine the _dar’jetii_ and the Republic feel the same, for now, even if the _dar’jetii_ have been getting a little… greedy, lately.”

“So you think capturing and illegally holding one lone pirate captain that’s barely twenty-two standard is going to answer the question of economies running like economies are supposed to run for you?” Alpha clarified, and _ba’bu_ just hummed again, his mind somewhere far, far away that Alpha couldn’t follow unless his _ba’bu_ deigned to tell him how to get there.

He knew he was supposed to be _Mand’alor,_ more than likely, but _manda,_ if _ba’bu_ could share these nuggets of thought processes that had made him one of the greats, that would be wonderful.

“Hondo Ohnaka has always been interesting to me,” _ba’bu_ said, and oh, this was about his _father._ “Ingenious. Unpredictable. Respected by his peers, as much as a pirate can be respected by pirates. Virtually unkillable, survived running into _dar’jetii_ and _jeti_ _i_ alike and somehow always coming out the winner with sleight of hand and tricks. I’ve never met him, personally, but you do have to wonder what would possess a Weequay like that to just up and adopt a Force sensitive son and raise him to be so very similar to himself.”

“He heard the _buir_ song, there’s no need to read more into it,” Alpha scoffed, but _ba’bu_ just smiled that old, wizened smile.

“Guided by the _Manda_ itself. Destiny is a funny thing, isn’t it?”

Alpha went silent, because when _ba’bu’s_ mind wandered like this, he didn’t really know what to say or do. Never really did.

“Ah, never mind me. Just an old man’s curiosity,” _ba’bu_ laughed, and then his arm was back through Alpha’s. “Let’s get that stew before it boils over, hm? I’m sure it’ll be as wonderful as always.”

  
Alpha didn’t like this. He didn’t like this at all, but hey. One day _ba’bu_ was going to be marching on, and it was best to let him march where he wanted in the meantime. There was always more to learn from _Mand’alor the Scholar,_ and if Alpha was chosen to be his student, he would just have to do his best to keep up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eeby deeby, but unironically.
> 
> tumblr: [ psychicshr00m](https://psychicshr00m.tumblr.com/)


End file.
